The woman has been nothing but trouble since she arrived, pushing her long nose into things that shouldn't concern her, taking over the valley, usurping Belinda's well-defined position, turning her friends against her. Of course she had to become Big Cheese, and of course she had to win the cheeserolling competition. The woman is so vulgar, so pushy, and so American. All this mess is her awful fault. It has absolutely nothing to do with Belinda. She is not responsible for it in any shape or form.
She pushes away a tear with a short finger and swallows the fleshy lump in her throat. She cranes forward for a better view of Lauren's house. Her heart stops. She slowly covers her mouth with her hand. Is that Kevin she can see moving about the grounds? In a white shirt and jeans? He's certainly tall enough to be the americana 's son. Belinda stares. She frantically scans the hillside for anyone who resembles her daughter. What was she wearing yesterday? A white top and a denim skirt? Is someone moving behind the boy? She strains forward, her bloodshot eyes squinting into the sun. Where are her wretched binoculars when she needs them? She stands up. Belinda is prepared to wager the nylon nightie off her back that Mary is shacked up at the Casa Padronale. Her own daughter, sleeping with the enemy. It's almost more than she can bear.
She rushes toward the telephone, dialing finger at the ready. The number! The number? What is the American bitch's number? She should remember it by heart now, the amount of times she has half dialed it. She finds the piece of paper it is written on and dials. She waits. The long tones ring out.
“Answer. Answer, you bitch,” mutters Belinda. “Hurry up.”
“Hello?” It's Lauren's familiar voice. It is less cool, slightly more frantic than usual.
“I want to speak to her,” barks Belinda down the telephone.
“Who is this?” quizzes Lauren.
“You know who it is,” replies Belinda, her voice twisted with sarcasm. “I want to speak to Mary.”
“She's not here,” snaps Lauren.
“I don't believe you.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” asks Lauren, sounding increasingly annoyed.
“Gee,” says Belinda, imitating Lauren's voice to the extent that the woman now hails from Ireland, “I think I might be.”
“She's not here,” says Lauren slowly, as if communicating with the hard of hearing.
“Liar!”
“She's not.”
“Liar!”
“Oh, for God sake,” snaps Lauren. “Talking to you is like dealing with a child. No wonder your daughter left you. She's not here, and has not been here in the last twenty-four hours. Neither, for that matter, has my son. I have no idea where they are, or what they're doing, or what they plan to do.” Lauren is beginning to sound a little nervous and tense herself. “Neither of them has contacted me, and I presume neither of them has contacted you. I have no idea where they could have gone. Do you?”
“No,” says Belinda quietly.
“You see, Kyle doesn't really know Italy. I mean, he knows the language and his way around, but he doesn't have any friends here. Does Mary?”
“What?” asks Belinda.
“Does Mary have any friends in Italy?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know if your daughter has friends or not?” asks Lauren, sounding shocked.
“No.”
“Really! Sometimes—”
“Sometimes you sound like a mother who didn't know her son was having an affair with a girl in the same valley!” declares Belinda.
“This is not helping.”
“Why should I help you?”
“Because our children are lost together,” snaps Lauren.
“They're not lost,” says Belinda. “They just don't want to be found.”
“Anyway,” says Lauren.
“Anyway,” repeats Belinda, “I blame you.”
“Me?” yells Lauren.
“Yes, you!”
“Now you're being unreasonable.”
“Now you're sounding insane,” replies Belinda.
“You're the one who's insane.” Lauren laughs. “I don't think I've ever met anyone more fucking crazy than you.”
“Your son kidnapped my daughter.”
“Bullshit!” shouts Lauren. “Your daughter ran away from you!”
“Your son ran away from you!” shouts Belinda. “Touché!”
“This is not fucking helping!” shouts Lauren again, and slams down the phone.
Belinda stares at the receiver. Lauren hung up on her! The bitch! That woman is just too rude and too impossible. Well, at least her son isn't there either, thinks Belinda, walking slowly to her ex-husband's favorite chair and sitting down. And Mary, thankfully, is not sleeping with the enemy. That really would have been too much to bear. But where can they be? Mary doesn't have any money. She doesn't have any clothes. She has got only the denim skirt and white T-shirt she went to the festa in. Belinda stares out of the french windows, repeatedly scratching the back of her hand. Should she go to the police? What would she say? My daughter has run off with her lover. They'd laugh in her face. They'd think it was some beautiful romantic story. This is the country of love affairs, after all. “And I can't speak the language,” mutters Belinda, slapping the arm of her chair. “God! Where could they be?”
The telephone rings. Belinda starts in her chair, leaps up, and runs toward it as if her life depended on it. “Mary?” she says, asks and demands all at once.
“Er, no,” says Howard. “It's Howard.”
“Oh, Howard,” says Belinda, expectation ebbing out of her shoulders.
“I'm sorry to disappoint,” he says. “I was just a little worried about you.”
“Oh,” says Belinda, somewhat taken aback.
“Well,” he says, sounding embarrassed by his own concern. “You know, yesterday …”
“Yes,” says Belinda, trying to work out which part of yesterday Howard is concerned about. The part when she declared him to be a shambling alcoholic in front of the group? The part when she sniped nonstop about Lauren's unsporting desire to win the cheese rolling? The part when she made a hysterical scene in front of the whole comune, demanding her daughter choose between her mother and her boyfriend? The part when Mary chose the boyfriend? Or the mad hand-waving moment at the very end?
“But you're okay, are you?” he asks.
“Um, yes,” says Belinda. “Well, you know, I'm a little upset.”
“Clearly,” agrees Howard. “I once made someone do that.”
“Do what?” asks Belinda.
“Choose,” says Howard.
“Oh,” says Belinda.
“Yeah. Between me and her long-haired dachshund called Heathcliff. It used to bring me out in a rash.”
“Right,” says Belinda.
“And she chose Heathcliff,” continues Howard. “That's the thing about asking people to choose. You have to live with the consequences of their choice.”
“Yes.” Belinda's voice is heavy with sadness.
“So count yourself lucky,” he says, allowing an element of breeziness to come into his voice. “At least you weren't rejected for a sausage dog.”
Belinda smiles. “Are you trying to cheer me up?”
“A little,” says Howard. “Has it worked?”
“A little,” says Belinda.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don't know.”
“Have you heard from her?”
“No.”
“I'm sure she'll be in touch,” he says. “Anyway, it's not as if she's gone off with anyone too horrendous, is it?”
“Well, I'm afraid that's where you and I have to differ,” says Belinda, stiffness returning to her voice.
“Oh,” says Howard, retreating at the first whiff of confrontation. “Right.”
“As far as I'm concerned, she couldn't have run off with a worse person.”
“Oh,” says Howard.
“Yes,” says Belinda. “Of all the people to choose.”
“Right,” says Howard. “If that's how you feel—”
“It is.”
“Okay, then.”
There is a loud, important knock on Belinda's front door. “Howard?” says Belinda.
“Mm?”
“I've got to go; there's someone at the door. It could be Mary.”
“Go,” says Howard.
“Arrivadeary,” says Belinda.
“Bye.”
Belinda puts down the receiver and runs to the front door, a broad, forgiving smile gracing her face. Her heart is racing, her palms are clammy with excitement. She throws open the door, she stands back, her arms open, awaiting her daughter's embrace.
“Oh,” she says, taking an unsteady step back. “It's you.”
“It's me,” says Lauren with a tight smile. “You and I need to talk.”
She is dressed in a pair of crisp jeans, a white T-shirt, and a pair of JP Tod's loafers; her hair is washed, her face moisturized, her teeth are clean, and her eyelashes have been Vaselined.
Belinda is barefoot, still in the cream nylon nightie, devoid of underwear. Her hair has not seen a brush since yesterday morning, and she hasn't quite got around to washing. “I'm not even dressed,” she informs her visitor.
“I can see that,” says Lauren, looking Belinda up and down.
“You can't come here unannounced.”
“I just did,” she says with a little shrug. “Are you going to let me in?”
“I don't see why I should,” says Belinda as defiantly as one can when not wearing underwear.
“Well, I'm not leaving,” says Lauren.
The two women stare at each other, one showered and dressed, the other not, yet both tired, feeling the same anguish at the loss of her child. Belinda's hand is on the door. Her short pink fingers gently apply pressure for it to close. Lauren's leather-clad toes are wedged against the bottom of the door, bent backward on themselves to ensure that it does not. They are locked in stalemate. Neither is prepared to give any ground. Belinda's knuckles grow white with strain, Lauren's toes crunch under the pressure.
Then, suddenly, Belinda loses concentration and Lauren seizes her chance. With one swift, elegant move, she crosses the threshold into the hall.
“I think we should try to work together on this,” says Lauren, leading the way to the sitting room, her well-practiced negotiating skills kicking in.
“Together,” repeats Belinda, injecting disdain into her voice, yet trotting along behind her uninvited guest.
“Yeah,” asserts Lauren. “That way we can cover all the avenues more quickly and not waste time doubling up on things.”
“And why on earth should I help you?” asks Belinda.
“Because not helping me would fly in the face of logic,” announces Lauren, trying to keep her voice as restrained as possible. “By helping me, you're helping yourself. It's a simple statement of fact.”
“Of course it is,” says Belinda sarcastically.
“Oh, God,” says Lauren, succumbing to a wave of irritation. “You are an unbelievable nightmare of a woman.”
“Well, the words ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’ come to mind.” Belinda shakes her head in witty triumph.
“What?” asks Lauren, not understanding the bluntness of Belinda's supposedly razor-sharp response.
“Pot calling the kettle black,” says Belinda, with an evident jadedness.
“Oh, God,” says Lauren as she makes to walk back to the front door. “You really are some sort of—” She stops in her tracks. “What the hell is—” She looks at the floor, and then above her, as the ceiling begins to shake.
“It's only a passing lorry,” says Belinda nervously as her feet vibrate under her.
“No, it's not,” says Lauren, her eyes wide.
The shelves behind Belinda start to wobble—they appear to bounce up and down while still attached to the wall. Belinda's cheap collection of glass objects jump along in great leaps, career off, and smash on the floor. A great crash of broken glass comes from the kitchen, followed by a series of lesser ones as plates frisbee out of cupboards as individuals, and then whole piles come falling to the floor.
“Earthquake!” shouts Lauren.
“Earthquake!” shouts Belinda.
For a second, they both remain rooted to the spot. Then, as books fly off the shelves with supernatural force, and the computer dives to the floor next to them, adrenaline kicks in.
“Terrace!” shouts Belinda.
“We won't make it!” yells Lauren.
“Table!” they scream, launching themselves headfirst under the small, solid, oak computer table.
As they do so, the full force of the 'quake hits Casa Mia. The shelves crash off the wall, the kitchen units explode, every pane of glass in the windows bursts free of its frame and shatters. The porch falls off the front of the house, the ceiling above one of the cantinas collapses, sending dust and terra-cotta tiles pouring into the rooms below. The outside wall of Belinda's terrace cracks and then, due to the poor finish and substandard cement used to point it by the rip-off British developer from whom Belinda had bought the house, it collapses, bringing the roof and two other walls with it. In fact, within twenty-five seconds Casa Mia has imploded as if made from a deck of playing cards and the two women are buried within it.
The noise is deafening. The screams of twisting metals, the cries of ancient beams breaking, the piercing shattering of glass. It is as if the very mouth of hell opens and allows Belinda and Lauren to hear what goes on inside. After the noise, there is a momentary reprieve, before the loud whoosh of allencompassing, cloaking, choking dust. And then total silence.
Belinda is the first to make a sound. She coughs to clear her throat, and makes the mistake of inhaling deeply, filling her lungs with dust again. It sets off a coughing fit as she chokes and wheezes, emptying and filling her body with the pulverized contents of her house. Eventually, she pulls up the hem of her nightie and covers her nose and mouth. The aerated perforations allow her to breathe, and the fabric filters the air. Lauren does not make a sound. Her heavy body is flopped over Be-linda's feet at the other end of the table.
“Lauren?” says Belinda. “Lauren? Are you alive?” Nothing. Panic sets in. Belinda's heart races and her hands shake. Her insides are shivering. “Lauren? Lauren?” She gives the limp body at her feet a little kick. “Lauren?”
“Mm?”
“Are you alive?” asks Belinda.
“What?”
“Are you alive?” asks Belinda. “Are you hurt?”
“Um … yeah … sure, yeah … It'll take more than a goddamn 'quake to kill me,” drawls Lauren as she brings herself up to a sitting position in the rubble. “I'm 'quake-proof. Or didn't I tell you?” She starts to cough. She hacks and hacks, struggling for air.
“Cover your mouth,” instructs Belinda. Lauren tugs at her now filthy gray T-shirt and pulls it over her mouth. “Breathe slowly.”
The two women stare at each other. Both are gray with dust, their faces thick with it, like some deep-pore face mask. Only the whites of their eyes shine brightly in the filth and dark-ness. Their hair is thick with dust. Belinda's is decorated with a smattering of rubble and sticks out at various angles, while Lauren's hangs thick and straight and gray, as if someone has covered her with wallpaper paste. They both sit with their legs stuck out in front of them, their mouths covered with their makeshift masks. Belinda's bare feet are covered in little cuts that slowly ooze blood into the dust. Lauren's shoulder is broken. Although the endorphins that course through her do something to dull the agony, a red-hot poker of pain shoots through her whenever she moves. She tries to keep as still as possible.
“How are we going to get out of here?” Belinda asks, shifting around under the small table.
“I've no idea,” says Lauren.
“Stay there,” orders Belinda. “Let's just see if I can move at all.”
She gets onto her hands and knees and makes as if to crawl out from under the table.
“I am,” says Belinda as she pokes out her head. “Oh, my God! My whole house has collapsed! There's nothing left.”Her ex-husband's chair is pushed up against the table, and she tries to move it out of the way.
“Careful!” repeats Lauren.
“Will you bloody shut up?” hisses Belinda. “I know what I'm doing.” She gives the chair another push. It moves, as does the rubble balanced on top of it. There is a loud crash as it falls.
Just in time, Belinda manages to get her head back under the table before they are buried all over again.
“Shit!” says Belinda, as she coughs and flaps the dust away from her face.
“That was a really crap idea,” says Lauren.
“I don't hear you coming up with anything else,” snaps Belinda. “It appears business brains aren't terribly useful in the Tuscan countryside.”
The two women sit in silence as the full hideousness of their predicament hits them. Not only are they stuck here together until they are rescued, there is no guarantee of when, or indeed if, that will happen. As Jean-Paul Sartre said, “L'enfer, c'est les autres” —Hell is other people—and they are beginning to understand exactly what that means. Lauren sighs and hugs her shoulder, leaning her dusty head against the table leg.
“I blame you,” says Belinda.
“What?” Lauren coughs.
“I blame you for it all,” says Belinda.
“Jesus Christ, Belinda,” she says, shifting slightly. “I may be a powerful person, but not even I can pull off an act of God.”
“I know that. But if you hadn't come to this valley, then I wouldn't have had all the problems I have had, and I wouldn't be sitting here, buried alive, with you right now.”
“No, you'd be buried alive on your own,” says Lauren.
“Exactly!” she says triumphantly.
“So you're saying you'd rather be buried alive on your own than with me?”
“Yes.”
Tuscany for Beginners Page 25